


three times val captured robb

by queenofglass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Espionage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Tumblr <a href="http://queenofglass.tumblr.com/post/21348270666/character-challenge">character challenge</a>. Three Times Val Captured Robb (And The One Time She Didn't). Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three times val captured robb

The first time is in Paris.

Val is sipping a martini, eyes narrowed over the glass. Her dress is red and revealing, but she’s found dressing ostentatiously allows a surprising amount of influence over the opposite sex. It doesn’t work on him, though; he’s learning her tricks. They’ve been playing this game for years.

He’s taking shots with the Prime Minister’s aide, who in turn is carrying the chip around his neck. _Idiot_. Only a fool would take a valuable piece of data to a public event. Val watches them with her compact, on the pretense of re-applying lipstick. She’s capping the tube when he rises from the table, grinning.

Val follows, stealing out of the hall without hurry. He won’t be far. And he isn’t.

She slips off her heels and steals up behind him. He is examining the data chip as he walks, holding it up to the light. Big mistake. He’s celebrating prematurely. With all her might, she shoves him into the nearest broom closet, snatching the chip out of his startled hands.

He pounds on the door. “Val!”

“Thanks a million, Stark,” she says sweetly. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“That wasn’t fair,” he complains, his voice muffled.

Val presses her hands to the surface of the door. “First rule, Stark: there _are_ no rules.”

———

The second time is in Moscow.

She’s on a mission to steal Clover Leaf from the Kremlin Armoury. Even for her, this will be tricky. The Clover Leaf is one of the few Fabergé eggs that has never left Russia. On top of the obvious red tape, it has been noted to be too fragile for travel. Stealing it will take every ounce of her skills.

Val takes several tours of the museum, watching the egg with covetous eyes. One of the guards frowns at her, but a smile and a flawless Russian accent takes him off the scent.

She expects _him_ to be holed up somewhere nearby. They’ve been playing cat and mouse for a long time, snatching missions from each other, toeing the clear and obvious line. Espionage is a dangerous game; they play on opposite sides. But Val can’t resist a little fun, and Stark is an amusing opponent.

The museum is very protected. It takes over an hour to hack the security system, then twenty minutes to ensure every guard is unconscious. Finally, she propels from the ceiling with grace, landing primly on her toes like a ballerina.

“Not so fast.”

He rugby tackles her to the ground, pinning her arms with ease. She scowls. “Stark.”

“Hello.”

He’s wearing a black hat over his curly red hair. She wants to tear it off and cover his smug face. “Can you get off?”

“And let you steal this egg? I don’t think so.”

Val slams her head onto the floor in frustration. “Do you _know_ how much planning it took to get to this point? Just take it. I don’t care.”

Stark grins wolfishly. “Angry I won?”

“Of course,” she growls, jerking her hips upward. He rolls off her, snickering. “Is this how you act on every mission?”

“Only the ones you interrupt,” he says cheerfully, swapping the egg with a manufactured copy. Val stands, reaching for the rope. Stark turns his back on her, examining his find.

 _Hell of an ass_ , she thinks as she bends. Stark is one of those stupid kids in elementary school who doesn’t realize his shoelaces are being tied together. Val rolls back onto the floor as he glances over his shoulder.

“If you’re done moping, maybe we can share.”

“Share?” she scoffs. “I don’t share, I take what’s mine.”

With a great heave, Val tugs the end of the rope toward the floor. Stark yelps, flailing, but blessedly doesn’t drop the egg. She smiles.

“Looks like you _don’t_ win this time,” she laughs, prying the Clover Leaf from his furious grasp.

“You’re actually going to leave me here?”

“You always underestimate me, Stark.”

Val tucks a knife in his belt, pats his thigh, and hurries off. She hears his swearing through the vents and smiles again.

———

The third time is in London.

Val’s waiting for the train when someone tugs her braid. She turns, half-expecting a creep with dirty hands. But it’s Stark again, red hair, blue eyes, and a sly smile.

“You.”

“Me,” he agrees, pretending to examine a map of the Underground. “Good to see you, Val.”

“I suppose you’re after the West file,” she says as the train approaches. He folds the map and stuffs it in his jacket.

“Maybe.”

“You won’t get it,” Val informs him when they sit together. There’s barely anyone in this car. On a whim, she puts her legs in his lap. “I’ll beat you again.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’ve been letting you win.”

Val freezes. “What?”

Stark chuckles, knowing he’s found a way to push her buttons. “Maybe your victories aren’t really victories at all.”

She wrenches away from him. “I won fair and square.”

Val stands at the next stop, fuming. So he’s been chivalrous this whole time? Letting her reach the finish line because he thinks her weak?

She leans down, her braid brushing his cheek. “Then a new game begins today.”

The train pulls away, but his smirk is unmistakable in the crowd.

Later that night, she takes drastic measures. He got there first. 

Stark is fleeing the scene, tearing at the bow tie at his throat. The file is clutched in his left hand. He enters a telephone booth underneath a cracked streetlight, and she makes her move.

Val yanks the door open, then presses the cloth over his mouth and nose. He struggles feebly; his eyes cross. Stark’s gaze is accusatory; chemicals are a low blow in this game. She pulls the file from his loose grip and hugs it to her chest.

Guilt trickles in after a moment. She can’t very well _leave_ him here like this. Rolling her eyes, she slings his arm around her shoulders and drags him. To passerby, she looks like a designated driver. Stark is broad and nearly out; pulling him is no small feat. Grunting, she heaves him into the backseat and jumpstarts the car.

“Not . . . fair,” she hears him groan an hour later. Traffic is terrible; Val hates being delayed. Frowning, she finds a no parking zone and stops the car.

“Sorry, Stark,” she says, hiding his money and identification under his shirt. His skin is warm and feverish, but the water she leaves behind will be enough. “Check.”

———

She’s in Rome the next time they meet.

The airline lost her luggage, making her miss the drop point by only two hours. Any other agent could be seizing it right now. She stops at a small cafe, sinking into an available booth. Val fumbles for a light.

“Ciao.”

Val watches the flame warily. “Stark.”

“You look well.”

“So do you. Not drugged.”

“Not drugged.”

“No USB?” she asks, crossing her legs. He orders them both drinks, then gulps his down immediately.

“Tyrell got there first. Him and Baratheon. I think they’ve teamed up.”

Val laughs. “Maybe we should try that.”

Stark grins. “What a pair we’d make.”

“Though we do have all night,” she says, stubbing out the cigarette. “In one of the greatest cities in the world, I might add.”

Stark leans forward, his elbow on the table. She can count the freckles on his nose. She can spot a single strand of gray hair at his temple. “My room has a view.”

It does have a nice view, but not the one she’s looking for. Val pulls at buttons and zippers, kissing him, wanting to be rid of that stupid smile he always wears. He tears her dress at the waist and drives his hips hard into hers. He laughs when she hisses the word _Stark_.

“My name is Robb,” he says at dawn. There’s been a smoke and snore between last night and now, and she yawns.

“Robb, then. Let’s order room service.”

Robb smirks, pinning her down like he did in Moscow. She doesn’t quite mind. He reaches for the torn remains of her dress and ties a wrist to the headboard.

Val rolls her eyes. “Is this what you’re into?”

“I thought you were into that,” he says cheerfully, planting a kiss on her frowning mouth. “You’re the one playing rough.”

She watches as he pulls on last night’s clothing. Something falls out of his pocket.

“What’s that?” she asks suspiciously.

“The USB,” Robb grins. “You just missed me at the airport. The drop off was in the international terminal, but you were tied up in baggage claim.”

Her jaw drops. “What?”

“It’s time I won for a change, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No, I don’t,” Val snaps, tugging uselessly at her bound arm. “And I never left you this helpless.”

Robb leaves a pocketknife on the end table, along with his phone number. “Call me.”

Her voice follows him out of the room. “This isn’t over, Stark!”

“Your move.”


End file.
